by R.S. Grey
Seems equally as important to me.
“Fine. Okay.” I sweep my hands though the air and turn away, eyes narrowed on my bathroom mirror. He wants honesty? He’s about to get it. “I think you’re handsome—h-o-t.”
“How handsome?”
I scold him with my stare, and he doesn’t even have the decency to hide his arrogance.
Enough. I’ve had enough. I push to stand and yank the door open.
“How about we change this into a game of truth or dare?” I quip. “I dare you to leave this shack right now.”
“That’s a terrible dare.”
“Fine, truth: did you mean all that stuff you said in your office? Do you really think so little of me?”
“Meredith, I was wrong. I was angry, and jealous, and worried that you were too good to be true. I’m sorry.”
I want to delve into every single word he just said, but I’m too drunk. I’ve already forgotten half of them.
I nod. “Okay, fine. Let’s just forget about it.”
“How was Andrew mean to you?”
I pinch my eyes closed. I knew he’d bring that back up, knew he wouldn’t be able to leave well enough alone. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to keep my lips zipped about my marriage. The reasons are stacked one on top of another at this point: I’m embarrassed that I put myself in that situation in the first place. I’m ashamed I stayed as long as I did. I’m hesitant to call it abuse and to open up about the things Andrew used to say, because then I’d actually have to acknowledge that I was a victim. I don’t like that word. I don’t want to have to wear it like an albatross around my neck. I just want to move on.
Those are all good reasons, but there’s still one more: I have tried to open up about Andrew in the past, and it hasn’t gone well.
Honestly, why do I care if Jack knows the truth about my marriage? Up until a few days ago, he wielded incorrect assumptions about me and my life as hurtful weapons. Maybe he’s realized the error of his ways now, but I’m still annoyed. I want to quote Clark Gable and say, Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. I don’t give a damn what he thinks of me or my choices.
Not anymore.
“Meredith.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“How was he mean to you?”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it!”
I think I’m doing a good job of voicing my resistance to this topic, but he isn’t so easily swayed.
“I’d like to know what he did to you.”
Jesus Christ! He’s not going to drop it.
I slam the door closed again and throw my hands up in defeat. “It was the way he spoke to me. It was the things he said to me…the things he called me.”
There, he has his answer.
“Like what?”
“Does it matter?” I move to straighten a towel hanging near the shower. Then I go check on Alfred.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but you should talk to someone about it.”
“I have talked to someone,” I grumble, “and it didn’t go over well.”
“Why didn’t it go well?”
“Because it’s hard to explain! It makes no sense to other people. If I was living with an abusive monster, why didn’t I just leave? He wasn’t holding me captive, wasn’t threatening to kill me if I left. He was such a manipulative asshole, it took me years to realize what he was, what I’d become! It makes no sense. He’s this outgoing, happy person. To the world, Andrew Wilchester is perfect. No one wants to believe he has another side to him—just ask Helen.”
“You told her about the abuse?”
The way he says the word makes my skin crawl. I don’t like that label. I want to lay no claim to it.
“I tried.”
“And she didn’t want to hear it?”
He sounds angry, but I’m careful with my next words. Helen helped me get this job; I don’t want to throw her under the bus.
“She wasn’t trying to hurt me. We aren’t close—that’s my fault. I kept the truth from her for too long, and now it’s too late. To her, it’s all so confusing. She wants me to reconcile with him.”
“That’s what she told me would happen.” His voice is steady and calm. I’m envious of his sobriety. “She said you’d go back to California once you got a dose of reality.”
I laugh, and I’m embarrassed to find it’s not a laugh at all but a broken sob.
It hurts knowing she said those things about me to someone else. It’s one thing to suspect it, another to hear it confirmed. I heave in a deep breath and try to get it together. This is embarrassing. I’m drunk.
“I swear I’m not weak. I didn’t stay because I was scared of being on my own.” I’m pacing now, worked up from all the truth spilling out of me. “It was just really confusing—the cycles he put me through. It was like being on the end of a line. He’d toss me out and reel me back in. Human beings gravitate toward cycles, routines, and that became ours.”
“I’m sorry.”
“My marriage to him is part of the reason I feel so isolated now. I put distance between myself and the people around me because I was afraid people would find out I was living this…lie.”
He’s off the bed now, bending to where I’m sitting on the rug. I don’t remember sitting down, but he’s here now, right in front of me, catching my tears and cradling my head.
“It’s not your fault Helen didn’t believe you.”
“Please don’t be angry at her. She’s not to blame in all this. I should have left earlier—”
His eyes flare with fury. “Stop talking like that. You’re the victim, not Helen, and not Andrew. You left when you could, and that’s all that matters.”
He’s cradling my face and I’m weeping like I’ve never wept in my life. I’m losing water weight by the gallon, shriveling up like a raisin. I will be dehydrated and dead by the end of this sob session.
“I just want to move on.”
“So do it.”
“I thought I was,” I cry, angry now. “But Andrew still followed me here! I’m still married to the man for Christ’s sake! That’s why I have to go to Mexico—MEXICO!” I snap my fingers. “That’s why I was thinking about Mexico earlier!”
“If possible, I think you’re getting more drunk. Here, blow.”
I don’t realize I was creating snot bubbles until he forces a tissue under my nose. That’s…fun. I’ve successfully solidified my role in his life as Crazy Housekeeper To Keep At Arm’s Length. I wonder if I can use my tenuous emotional state to finagle some benefits like health insurance or paid time off. There has to be a bright side to having a mental breakdown in front of your boss.
“I am more dunk.” I try again, losing my fragile grasp on language. “Durrunk.”
“Do you feel sick?”
“Just weepy and sleepy.” I laugh at my rhyme. “If you move your hands away from my cheeks, I think I’ll drop right to the floor face first. I’m so tired.”
“I’m going to put you to bed.”
He hooks his hands under my arms and hoists me off the ground. Cold air blasts my bare legs. I wrap them around his waist to warm them up. God, he’s so warm…so warm and tall and strong. I want him to set me down and pick me up again. It turns me on that he can just pluck me up off the ground like that. It fulfills some vestigial cavewoman need I didn’t even know I had.
He hoists me higher and I’m reminded that I’m still wrapped around him like an anaconda. Damn. This is hot, but it’s not right. When I imagined having sex with him on this twin bed, I was fully sober and on top, riding him like…well, a cowgirl.
“I didn’t think this was how tonight would end,” I whisper against his cheek. “I think you’re really handsome, like so so so bangin’ sexy, don’t get me wrong, but I’m pretty drunk and sleepy.”
I’m pawing at his chest. I’m running my hands along his strong jaw, feeling it for the first time. It’s magnificent. He is magnificent.
“Oh, I see, Mr. Verb Man, got different verbs for all occasions.”
He sets me down on the bed and tugs my blankets aside so I can slip my legs underneath.
I wait for him to pat my head and tell me to go to sleep like a good little girl.
Instead, he tugs the covers up and sits down beside me.
His brown eyes are pools of sympathy. I wonder if I was imagining the desire I saw in them earlier.
“How ya feelin’, champ?”
He brushes his hand across my forehead, pushing my hair back.
“Like I’d keel over if I wasn’t already lying down.”
“I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”
“That reminds me—can Alfred stay with me tonight?”
“He’s already asleep at the foot of your bed.”
“Whew.”
“Go to sleep.”
I close my eyes.
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“I really wanted to hate you after the things you said on Thursday, but I couldn’t. When you were at the wedding all by yourself, I felt so bad. I only came up to the bar because I wanted to talk to you, but I didn’t know how. I was so…angry. Maybe I should still be angry, but I’m not.”
“Well if you wake up tomorrow and realize you’re still mad at me, that’s okay. I know this is probably just the alcohol talking.”
“Thanks. Yeah…maybe I’ll be double pissed in the morning.”
“Maybe.”
“Could you tuck the blanket around me now?”
He laughs. “Like you’re a kid?”
“Yes, exactly. It’s been a really long time since someone put me to bed like this.”
He chuckles, and I keep my eyes closed as he leans over and tucks, tucks, tucks around my entire body. I’m in a little cocoon of warmth when he’s finished. I think he’s about to go, but I’m not ready for him to leave.
I keep my eyes closed, but I’m smiling as I ask, “Wait, are we still playing that game? Because I have one more thing I want to know.”
“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“I’ll go to sleep as soon as you answer,” I promise.
“Okay, shoot.”
“That day we were swimming, did you see anything you weren’t supposed to? Like underneath my bra?”
I can hear his smile when he asks, “You mean, was your bra completely see-through? Yes.”
“Right. That’s what I thought. If you could go now, I’m going to turn over and suffocate myself with my pillow.”
He laughs, kisses my forehead, and then I must really be drunk because five seconds later, I’m dead to the world, completely conked out.
When I wake up, Jack and Alfred are sleeping, splayed out on the rug together.
They never left.
24
Meredith
Jack slept on the floor in the shack all night. He was supposed to leave once I went to sleep, but he stayed. He’s still there, lying on his side, using one of my blankets as a makeshift pillow. His t-shirt is scrunched so I can see a little bit of his abs and the top of his boxer briefs. If I had a camera, I’d snap two photos. The first I would send to Calvin Klein so he could be their new model. The second I would put in a maximum-security safety deposit box.
I roll over and poke him with my finger.
“Are you awake?”
He groans and keeps his eyes shut.
Alfred—who’s excited to see that I’m up and moving—trots over and licks my hand then turns and starts lapping at Jack’s face.
“Get,” Jack says, feigning a stern voice. “Get back.”
He tries to fend him off, but it’s no use. He’s not getting back to sleep now that Alfred and I are both awake.
He pushes to sit up and holds the dog at arm’s length so he can’t get to his face. Then he rubs sleep from his eyes and tugs a hand through his hair. I sit very, very still, as if I’m dressed in camouflage, observing the habits of a wild animal in its habitat. The sight of Jack there on the ground is a little funny and a whole lot sexy. His hair is askew from his blanket-pillow. His chin has a light dusting of black stubble, and his cheek sports a red imprint from sleeping on it. I want to slink off the bed and tackle him, pin him to the ground, and rub my cheek against that stubble.
“Shit, my back hurts,” he groans.
I smile. “Shack-sweet-shack.”
He twists right and left, trying to wring out his spine.
“You were supposed to leave after I fell asleep,” I point out.
At least that’s what I remember, but there are clearly gaps in my memory because the most recent browser tab on my phone shows a search for burro rides in Mexico.
He nods and pushes to stand. “That was the plan, but then I kept worrying you’d drown in your own puke or something. Freaked me out.”
My cheeks turn a nice rosy shade. “It was stupid of me to drink that much.”
He turns to me with one eye winked as if he’s trying to keep the early morning light from blinding him. “Everyone needs to get out of their head once in a while.”
I nod, appreciating that he doesn’t feel the need to scold me for my poor choices.
I push the blankets aside and kick my legs over the side of the bed. “I really should get going, eat breakfast or something. Edith has me teaching yoga to half the town this afternoon, and I think I’m still a little drunk.”
I stand and stretch my hands overhead. My head decides to take the opportunity to remind me that I basically poisoned myself last night and I’m now going to pay the price. I press a hand to my forehead and wince.
“Ahhhh…also, I should probably drink some water.” He laughs and I drop my hand. “What?”
He turns away, but he’s unsuccessful in wiping the smile from his face. “Your shirt’s tucked into your tighty-whities.”
I glance down and sure enough, he’s not kidding.
Well, that’s a great way to start my morning.
“Oh god,” I groan, yanking on the t-shirt until it’s back to hanging on me like a dress.
“It looked kind of stylish,” he assures me.
I go to grab some sleeping shorts, slightly embarrassed that I didn’t put them on to sleep. How many times did I flash him my ass during the night? Oh right—the limit does not exist.
“I’ll make you pancakes if you promise to erase that image from your memory.”
He slips his shoes on and heads for the door. “I like them topped with banana slices.”
“Obviously. I’m not a pancake amateur.”
We walk together to the farmhouse, Alfred darting in between our legs.
Edith is sitting at the kitchen table sipping some coffee when we walk in. She’s reading the Sunday paper and when she hears us enter, she folds down one corner and eyes us over the top of it.
“Mornin’, you two. Jack, I didn’t know you were doing wake-up calls nowadays.”
Jack clears his throat and heads for the coffee pot. I head for the pantry to grab pancake supplies.
“Long night?”
“No,” I say quickly, voice shrill and obvious.
“When did you get back from the wedding, Edith?” Jack asks, changing the subject.
“Oh, not too late. Must have been before you ’cause I saw your room was empty.”
Jack holds a cup of coffee out to me and I greedily accept it, hoping the caffeine will dull my headache. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, I went to bed pretty late,” he admits smoothly.
“What about you, Meredith? Did you go to bed pretty late too?”
“Edith,” Jack warns.
“Just trying to make polite conversation, sheesh.” She shakes out her paper and pretends to get back to reading.
“Do you want any pancakes, Edith?”
“No thank you. I already ate. Unlike you two, I’ve been awake for a few hours.”
Jack sig
hs and I finally cave. “Edith, we aren’t keeping secrets. There’s nothing to tell. I got drunk like an idiot, and Jack had to make sure I didn’t die in my sleep.”
She seems disappointed. “That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Well dammit, that’s boring.” Her chair screeches away from the table then she grabs her coffee and her paper. “And it means I owe Dotty and Deedee twenty bucks a piece.”
Jack and I exchange an amused glance and something sparks between us—a feeling that could easily overwhelm me if I let it. I shift my attention to the pancakes and fill them up with bananas and blueberries. Jack gets me an aspirin and some water and I’m so grateful, I let him pick his pancakes from the first batch. He takes the big ones, which is fine because everyone knows the little ones are tastier, with a better crust-to-fluff ratio. We sit at the table across from one another with Alfred lazing at our feet, hoping to catch an errant crumb.
My attention is pinned on the window in front of me while Jack’s is on the kitchen wall—we’re suddenly playing a game of chicken. We don’t talk for long minutes as we cut into our pancakes, fork bites into our mouth, and chew. Last night, we saw hidden sides of one another, the deep, secret parts you’re supposed to expose after like three years of dating, when you already share a lease, and a couch, and possibly an animal, when you aren’t afraid to make bodily noises in front of each other. We did it all wrong. We cut through the bullshit layers of polite conversation and small talk. I told him the truth about Andrew. We bonded over the debilitating fear of being alone, just a casual Saturday night between attractive, single employer and attractive, “it’s complicated” employee.
How unsettling. I really thought he was the devil. Now, I know it’s a disguise. Beneath all that arrogance and good hair, he’s funny and thoughtful and kind. He slept on my rug because he didn’t want me to aspirate my vomit—not exactly the MO of a fallen angel and leader of the damned.
I know the truth about him now, and it’s impossible to know how I’m supposed to navigate from here. Do I try to wipe my memory completely clean of last night? Do I pretend he was just being polite? Nothing more, nothing less? I don’t think it’s possible. I’d have to hit myself in the head with a rock or something.